


Dance Like No One's Watching

by devera



Category: Assassin's Creed, Uncharted
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this based on a couple of cross-over prompts at the asscreedkinkmeme, but it blew out a little (ha, no pun intended) and I know there's very little in the way of stuff in the Uncharted fandom, so I thought I'd break my own rule for a change and post it somewhere that didn't actually offer the protection of anonymity. Keep in mind the intended forum - this is pure unadulterated men-have-sex fiction. I do not have a reason except for that and there is subsequently no plot. Mostly.</p><p>You might also find it a little hard to place in any kind of canon timeline. Aside from the fact that there seems to be very little solid chronological data for Uncharted (has anyone worked out exactly how old Nate is?), I wrote this fic as a kind of alternate reality, where Desmond is either allowed out and about to do Assassin-y things when he's not in the Animus, or the end of ACB never happened somehow. You'll see what I mean. And why the relic in question is important is not important so make up your own explanations. In fact, that would probably serve you well for this whole fic. Either that, or just don't think about it too hard. That usually works for me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Dance Like No One's Watching

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based on a couple of cross-over prompts at the asscreedkinkmeme, but it blew out a little (ha, no pun intended) and I know there's very little in the way of stuff in the Uncharted fandom, so I thought I'd break my own rule for a change and post it somewhere that didn't actually offer the protection of anonymity. Keep in mind the intended forum - this is pure unadulterated men-have-sex fiction. I do not have a reason except for that and there is subsequently no plot. Mostly.
> 
> You might also find it a little hard to place in any kind of canon timeline. Aside from the fact that there seems to be very little solid chronological data for Uncharted (has anyone worked out exactly how old Nate is?), I wrote this fic as a kind of alternate reality, where Desmond is either allowed out and about to do Assassin-y things when he's not in the Animus, or the end of ACB never happened somehow. You'll see what I mean. And why the relic in question is important is not important so make up your own explanations. In fact, that would probably serve you well for this whole fic. Either that, or just don't think about it too hard. That usually works for me.

She's blonde; he's drunk. It sounds like the synopsis for a bad rom com – well, aren't they all bad, really? Anyway, beside the point. The point is, it's really just a little misunderstanding. See, she's the wrong blonde and he's the wrong amount of drunk, and he only realises it a second too late.

And sure, Nathan Drake's made his share of mistakes – let's face it, sometimes just in getting out of bed of a morning - but usually the punishment fits the crime, right? Roughly. Of course, try telling that to the kid currently trying to break his arm.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!"

"Desmond!"

And okay, that's not something Nate thought he'd hear at the beginning of a bar fight, which he's pretty sure this is going to devolve into because that's just the way his luck rolls – the girl trying to defend _him_ as opposed to the other way around. Her voice is tight, alarmed, and Nate might have had a little too much to drink, but he knows that kind of tone only too well and it means trouble of the bad-for-him kind.

So, it's a little understandable Nate forgets to apologise to the wrong blonde straight away, and instead finds himself staring up into a gaze so intense, eyes so cold and grey, he almost feels like he's back in Nepal.

"Desmond," the blonde says again, very carefully this time. "Let him go."

But Desmond - the guy with the grip and the gaze and the eyes, and hey, a pretty decent face to go along with that, Nate thinks - just stares at him impassively.

"They're just a few bones, Lucy," he says, deceptively mild. "He wasn't using them for anything worthwhile."

Nate knows his cue when he hears it; there's an apology here that is seriously overdue.

"Hey, pal, I'm sorry. Really. I thought she was someone else." It's not much of an apology, as apologies go, but in his defence the pain shooting straight up his arm and into his already compromised brain is making him see a few stars.

"Is that right," the kid says flatly, leaning in to stare at him some more. "So, you're generally about this charming when it comes to women?"

Nate tries to crack a self-depreciating grin. "Hey, you should see me with the guys."

And, oh, way to out himself to someone who's about to start breaking bones in his extremities before working his way up, except now the kid is just looking at him kind of funny instead of arctic and hostile. Maybe that's an improvement, although it also doesn't look like the kid is about to kiss him either so perhaps Nate should just keep his mouth shut entirely? Yeah, that'd probably be the best course of action. 

"Desmond," the blonde says again, this time in a no-arguments kind of tone, and suddenly the guy lets him go. The relief from pain makes Nate a little dizzy for a second.

Of course, that could just be the booze.

"Yeah, all right," the kid sighs finally, like he's conceding a long standing argument. "He's blue, anyway." Which makes no sense at all, but before Nate can nut through that one, the kid is focused on Nate again, getting up in his space. He's not taller than Nate but suddenly he seems a whole lot bigger. "But try being a bit more of a gentleman in the future," he warns. "Next time nice girls might not be around to save you."

Nate stares back. He's not looking for a fight here - not when he's this off his game - and he knows easily that this kid is prepared and capable of giving him one. But he still can't seem to help what comes out of his mouth. Half his problem most of the time.

"Story of my life, pal," he says with something that might have been a laugh once.

The kid doesn't say anything else, and the blonde just looks at him, calmly, then turns away, saying, "Come on, Desmond. Let's go." The kid goes like she's got him on some kind of leash.

Nate slumps into a bar stool as they disappear into the crowd and signals for another drink, because clearly if he's grabbing random women thinking they're El, he's not drunk enough. And if he's thinking about grey eyes and strong hands and warm skin against his as he knocks back the next shot, he's probably a little too drunk. Again, too much of one thing and not enough of the other – story of his life. What he needs, he thinks morosely, is a distraction.

 

A distraction drops into his lap two days later in the form of a nice, easy job - the acquisition of a small piece of pottery currently being housed in the Tokyo National Museum. Nate loves jobs in Japan; for all their fancy technology, their sense of security is kind of cute. Getting the Houryuuji Seal will be a piece of cake – exactly what he needs to take his mind off things.

Or at least it would have been a piece of cake.

This is getting ridiculous.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hisses before he can think better of it, and the kid is glaring back and his hand is around Nate's wrist again, just like before; his skin warm and soft, just like before. This time he's not trying to break anything, at least.

"Looks like I'm here for the same reason you are."

Nate narrows his eyes at him. "Desmond, right?" he says, and Desmond gives him a tiny, sharp smile.

"Nathan Drake, right?" he returns, and Nate forces himself not to pull his wrist out of Desmond's grip in reaction, not to even twitch, because letting someone see where they just got you is never a good idea. "I had a buddy of mine do a little digging. Interesting life, you lead, Nathan."

"Yeah, real interesting," Nate snaps, _now_ pulling his hand away, a little relieved that Desmond lets him go without argument. "But what I'm interested in right now is what we're going to do. I want the seal, you want the seal. There's only one seal."

Desmond raises an eyebrow at him and glances at the seal.

"Well, it's a dilemma, isn't it," Desmond agrees slowly, looking at him again. "Rock Paper Scissors?"

Nate snorts out a laugh, too surprised to stop himself. "Is that how you usually resolve dilemmas?"

Desmond shrugs. "When you work with the people I work with, yeah, pretty much. Look," he continues. "We don't have a lot of time here. Let's take this outside."

Nate definitely agrees. "You had a plan for getting to the seal?"

Desmond gives him a sudden and surprisingly cheeky grin. "Yep," he says and promptly cracks his elbow into the glass case surrounding the seal.

It's direct, effective. Of course, it also sets off the alarms.

"Are you crazy?!" Nate yells, as Desmond reaches in and grabs the seal and, shit, his plan for getting out better be an improvement on that.

"Actually," Desmond says, tossing the seal up into the air and catching it again like it's some kind of baseball. "Yeah. You coming?"

Hell, yes, Nate's coming. A crazy guy with an exit strategy is still a guy with an exit strategy. "Which way?"

Desmond grins again and points directly up.

Great, Nate thinks. More climbing.

 

Nate has never, _never_ seen anyone climb like Desmond does. He's a little like a monkey, grabbing hand holds Nate wouldn't have even seen and making jumps Nate would never have thought possible without assistance. Nate certainly can't make them without help, but if he could trust Flynn to catch him, he can trust Desmond, and catch him Desmond does, with barely a grunt. Suddenly Nate's kind of grateful for that killer grip Desmond exhibited earlier.

"Not much farther," Desmond says, hauling Nate up onto the ledge next to him. He hauls a little too hard – Christ, if that's even possible – and Nate stumbles into him. It's practically a romance novel cliché for a second, Desmond steadying him while Nate clings as he gets his feet back, and he could curse himself, he really could, because since when was he this the-opposite-of-smooth? 

"Sorry," Nate mumbles, a geez, is he just trying to make things worse?

"No problem," Desmond says casually, but his gaze lingers just for a second longer than maybe it should. "See that alcove in the far corner?"

Nate nods and looks over without quite looking down. It's not that he hates heights; it's just that he's really aware of how the floor way down there is one big piece of solid marble.

"Cool," Desmond continues. "So, just follow me, yeah? And don't fall."

"Wasn't planning on it," Nate mutters but Desmond's already off, throwing himself at a light on the other side of the breach in front of them that probably shouldn't hold his weight but does. Nate follows suit once Desmond clears it to the other side and if he's praying under his breath as he swings to the next ledge, that's between him and God, right?

They're on the top balcony and almost to the alcove when Desmond comes to an abrupt halt in front of him. Nate opens his mouth to ask what the hell the problem is, but before he can utter even a single syllable, Desmond is turning, shoving him rudely back the way they came and pressing him up into the doorway they just passed, hands shoving his shoulders back and stepping in until he's sandwiched between Desmond and the closed door behind him. Suddenly, one part of Nate's brain is noticing the way he feels, all firm, toned lines and hard angles, and is doing the synaptic equivalent of _hell yes_. The other part is the part that's drawing a blank, because he knows what this looks like but Desmond can't possibly be about to…

Suddenly he hears something else besides their close, careful breathing - a door opening somewhere down along the balcony – and he knows they're not alone any longer.

"Guards," he hisses, and Desmond's fingers press a little into the muscles of his shoulders with careful urgency. His face is so close Nate can clearly see the fine, jagged marks in the scar that runs from his top to bottom lip.

"Not guards," he breathes back and his expression is perfectly still, his eyes cold again like they'd been that night at the bar.

"Don't move," he says, giving Nate's shoulders another more conscious squeeze. "Let me deal with this."

"Deal with -" Nate starts to ask, but before he can finish, Desmond is stepping out from the alcove, and there's a sound suspiciously like that of a silenced handgun firing. Nate starts to duck around the corner – because of course he's the idiot who always runs _towards_ the gunfire instead of away from it – and there's Desmond and there's these two guys, definitely not guards, and they're shooting and Desmond is darting to the side and launching himself at the railing – the railing over a significant drop to the floor below – like he's throwing himself off it. But instead, as his foot strikes the handrail, he twists. Another two shots pop off and Nate feels like something's got a fist around his heart, because Desmond is falling…

No, he's _leaping_ , somehow using his own momentum to launch himself not off the railing but right at the two guys, his legs tucked under him his arms up like a striking snake and Nate stares, because it's impossible and it's happening almost too fast to see and it's also fucking _poetry in motion_.

And then Desmond lands, and it's over. The not-guards are laid out flat at Desmond's feet and they're not moving – probably a good thing since they've also stopped shooting – and Desmond is straightening up and Nate's mouth is probably hanging open. 

Which is about when he sees what it is that Desmond has in his hands, what he was using against two professional killers with P75s.

As he stares, the long straight blades protruding seemingly from Desmond's sleeves retract with a quiet, deadly little _schnick_ back into whatever casing they're housed in.

"What the fuck?" Nate says incredulously, not knowing where to look – at Desmond, at his hands, or at the guys on the floor, probably dead. "You took on two guys armed with sub automatic weapons with a couple of _knives_? What are you, a _ninja_?!" And he's actually not completely joking.

"Kind of?" Desmond says, not like it's cool or like Nate shouldn't be surprised, but a little awkwardly, like he's embarrassed. He makes an aborted gesture, which seems odd for what Nate knows of the kid so far, and it pings something in Nate's awareness and suddenly he's scanning for -

"Shit!" he grates, and practically leaps forward. "They got you. How bad is it?" But he's already plucking at Desmond's sleeve at his shoulder, trying to peel the fabric back from the wound.

"It's just a graze," Desmond tells him, still sounding embarrassed.

"If it's just a graze, why does your face look like that?" Nate demands, digging for something to staunch the bleeding, but Desmond's right. When he gets a decent look, it is only ‘just a graze'. How the hell Desmond managed to _dodge a bullet_ , Nate doesn't even know. He must be the luckiest guy on earth.

"Yeah, well I guess I was just realising that you actually care," Desmond tells him, sounding a little amused.

"I care," Nate snaps back, digging in a pocket for a handkerchief – less suspicion arousing than medical binding – and unravelling it, wrapping it around Desmond's arm and tying it gently off before letting him go and stepping back. The wound isn't bleeding too much but it needs proper cleaning. "I care about not getting caught having to carry your wounded ass out of here, sure. _Now_ what are you smiling at?"

Apparently Nate's a funny guy, because Desmond's not just smiling, he's trying not to laugh.

"You just... You totally just reminded me of someone, man. He likes to act like he doesn't care either."

Nate makes a face. "We can discuss your past boyfriends once we get out of here. Come on."

"It's okay," Desmond says, glancing down at the dead guys as his smile falls away. "They're Templars. They probably didn't leave any security alive _to_ catch us."

"They're _what_?" Nate says, because he thinks he just heard Desmond say they were Templars, as in _Knights Templars_. But Desmond only shakes his head, a quick dismissive gesture that already makes Nate think it's probably complicated.

"It's a really long story," he says apologetically.

Nate frowns. "And I've got an apartment in Shibuya and a bottle with your name on it." He hasn't forgotten the seal, either, but right now his first priority is to get the hell out of dodge before any more of Desmond's charming friends decide they want to crash this party. "Come on." He makes a start for their original goal, the door at the far end of the balcony.

"Yeah, we can probably just use the front door now, you know," Desmond calls after him, but damn it, Nate didn't climb all the way up here just to leave the regular way.

 

++++

 

"When you said you had a bottle with my name on it," Desmond says dryly from his perch on the edge of the sink in Nate's tiny bathroom in Nate's tiny Shibuya apartment, which he might have borrowed from an unknowing friend who happens to be in French Guiana right about now. "I didn't think you meant antiseptic."

Nate grunts, concentrating on his task. It's not that it isn't a simple clean up job that he's done a hundred times in the past, but it's that or really _look_ at Desmond. It's that or focus on the fact that Nate is standing between Desmond's denim clad, quite muscular thighs, and that Desmond is naked from the waist up with tattoos swirling up one arm and a stylised eagle in flight across his chest and he's got a full, lush mouth and his skin is smooth and olive and he's really kind of _beautiful_ , which in no way contradicts Nate's first somewhat drunken impression of him but really isn't helping all that much now in the close confines of the bathroom. 

"Yeah, well," he says, forcing himself to act casual as he tosses the cotton wool he'd been wiping Desmond's wound with into the trash before reaching for a swab and some tape. "I got that too. But I think you owe me at least something of an explanation first. Templars? Seriously?"

Desmond sighs, his bare chest rising and falling in Nate's peripheral vision. "Would you believe ‘ancient organisation consisting of powerful individuals trying to control the world'?"

Nate frowns, taping one side of the swab down and tearing off the end, before measuring out another length and doing the same to the other side.

"Actually, I would," he says, thinking of other, darker things; thinking there's actually not much he _wouldn't_ believe, these days. "So, they were after the seal as well?"

"I guess," Desmond says cagily. "Or me."

Nate looks at him at that, and Desmond is looking back.

"Right," Nate says after a moment. "Great."

Desmond frowns. "There's no reason for them to know where I am right now. The only guys who saw me with you are dead, and there was no way they had time to radio back to their Ops."

Nate, again based on past experience, will believe that when he sees it. "Why are they after you then? What did you steal?"

Desmond looks mildly offended at that. "I didn't steal anything. They're after something that I have."

"Not the seal," Nate adds.

"Not the seal," Desmond agrees.

"Great. Then no one's going to mind when I sell it to my…" Nate starts breezily, turning and reaching over Desmond's shoulder to put the medical supplies back where he found them. He expects Desmond to get out of the way but he doesn't, and as a consequence Nate is pretty much chest to chest with the guy, pressed between his spread thighs and-

Desmond straightens up just the tiniest amount, and distracted, Nate glances down. 

Next thing he knows, he's being kissed.

And Desmond is not shy about the contact either. He presses up harder, and just as it's registering with Nate that it's really good, like he'd somehow known it would be on the occasions the thought had skated across his brain, Desmond parts his lips and slides his tongue convincingly against Nate's.

Nate forgets what he's doing, or was doing, or was intending on doing. Or rather, his priorities get abruptly rewritten as Desmond's hands alight on his waist and he tugs Nate in and shifts his hips against him. It's not too pushy, but it is kind of promising, and fuck, it feels real good. So good that Nate finds his hands have moved to frame Desmond's face almost of their own accord and he's turning his head to a better angle so he can lick back into Desmond's mouth until Desmond makes a sound – a pretty encouraging one – under his breath.

But then Nate feels one of Desmond's hands fumbling at his fly and sanity reasserts itself momentarily.

"Mph-ey. Hey!" he tries, untangling himself enough to get a word out and a breath in. "This isn't... I mean, I wasn't trying to...."

"I know," Desmond says, a little impatiently. "I was, though."

Nate stares at him. "You were?"

"Yeah, well," Desmond says, a little awkwardly. "I thought I was getting a vibe, and it's been a while. Guess I'm a little rusty. Sorry. If you don't want, that's cool, man."

This is the thing, however: Nate _does_ want. Maybe he's missing El a hell of a lot more than just a few benders can cover, but Jesus, maybe he just wants something for himself for a change, something that isn't going to – okay, _probably_ isn't going to – lead to death, destruction and mayhem. And here Desmond is offering it to him, fairly openly and eagerly if the firm press of his cock against Nate's thigh is any indication. He must have been half hard the whole time he was sitting here, and that realisation does things to Nate it possibly shouldn't at his age.

"Shit," he mutters, mostly to himself, and he can feel heat in his cheeks but he absolutely refuses to believe he's actually blushing. "Shouldn't we, uh, get to know each other a little more first? Have a couple of drinks maybe? Talk about, oh, I don't know, our sexual health history or something?"

"I'm an assassin by birth," Desmond says immediately. "I'm already a little drunk on adrenaline from going up against two guys with guns and coming out with barely a scratch, and I haven't had sex enough lately to _have_ a history, so – and unless I'm mistaken and that really _is_ a 44 in your pocket - would it be okay if we maybe move on to something involving less talk and more action?"

Nate stares at him, trying to work out which issue to address first. A 44, huh? Kid's a bit of a flatterer, it seems.

"Geez," he grumbles finally. "Are you always this charming when it comes to men?"

Desmond smiles back, playful again, and god damn but that's just a little bit irresistible. 

"You should see me with the girls," he says, cheekily echoing the second stupid thing that came out of Nate's mouth when they'd first met.

"The girls, huh?" Nate asks. Maybe it's an attempt to start a conversation which may or may not derail what's going on here, but since he's shifting back into Desmond's space, thighs pressing Desmond's apart, pressing their groins together, warm and intimate and arousing, he doubts it. "That blonde you were with the other night?"

"Hell, no," Desmond huffs, angling his body up against Nate's and doing this complicated little shift against him that seems to fit them together in all the right places. "My boss. She'd break all my fingers if I tried."

"Yeah," Nate concedes roughly, palming the inside of Desmond's thigh, his pinky brushing Desmond's balls, pressing a little more deliberately when Desmond sucks in a breath and fixes him with a look that pretty much doesn't involve subtlety. "I can see how that would be likely." But he's not really invested in this conversation any more. What he's invested in is the way Desmond is rolling his hips restlessly against Nate's hand and turning his panting mouth towards Nate's like kissing is his favourite thing in the world. "You want to do it here?" he asks, leaning down to brush his lips against that inviting mouth. "I'm not sure the sink will –"

Desmond surges to his feet, right into the kiss, and Nate staggers backwards under his unexpected weight, spine smacking into the door jamb only two steps behind him – it really is the smallest bathroom in the world – which damn well hurts.

"Fucking ow!" he grunts, only Desmond is laughing against his mouth, Nate's shirt clenched in his fists as he propels them both, staggering, out the door and into the opposite wall. They hit it with a thump that probably improves the colour of Nate's shoulders and possibly his mate's neighbourly relations.

"If the sink won't hold," Desmond laughs, "how about the floor?"

"Wait, wait," Nate groans as Desmond starts dragging him towards the futon on the floor in the middle of the other room, still kissing him, his mouth everywhere at once and nowhere Nate can get a good lock on it. "Wait."

"Jesus, what now?" Desmond complains breathlessly.

"Condoms?" Nate says helplessly. "They're in the bathroom."

"But we were just in there!"

"Give me a break! I was distracted!"

Desmond pulls back and just looks at him, and then lets him go and turns, unfastening his fly and toeing his sneakers off one by one as he works his way towards the futon and, wow, that's, uh...

"Nice tattoo," Nate says hoarsely, staring as Desmond drops his jeans and briefs together and steps out of them. Kid's got a tramp stamp framing the space between his lower back and the incredibly muscled globes of his ass, sweeping lines of ink that cling to the curves and point downwards, directly to the money. Suddenly Nate's mouth is a little dry.

"Distracted again?" he throws back at Nate with a wicked grin as he tips himself onto the futon, rolls over, lifts his legs so he can peel his socks off and toss them at his pile of clothes, and then spreads out and starts stroking his flushed dick with one hand.

"Holy mother of God," Nate mutters and turns. It's debatable whether he's ever moved faster even with bad guys, bullets and blood-curdling monsters on his tail. He's got the condoms and lube from the bag he left in the bathroom and he's back in the other room, tossing the supplies at the futon and at Desmond, who has apparently really been getting into it in the nanoseconds Nate was gone. He's lying there, looking like the best kind of porn, and Nate is fumbling at the buckle of his belt, then leaving that and going for his shirt, just about tipping himself over trying to kick his boots off at the same time he's struggling to get his shirt over his head, forgetting how tight the laces are tied. He curses, and Desmond laughs, watching him with glittering eyes.

"Fuck," Nate grumbles again. "Geez, you could help me here instead of just lying there enjoying yourself."

"Sure," Desmond grins obligingly, and then instead of on his back in front of Nate, he's on his knees. Nate has no idea which he preferred, until Desmond's fingers tugging his belt open, and then his fly, decides him.

"Jesus!" Nate gasps. "Desmond."

Desmond just grins again, tugs Nate's briefs down and fishes Nate's cock out of his now open pants and says, "You wanted help." He's hardly got the last syllable out of his mouth before said mouth is sliding down on Nate's dick.

"Christ. Jesus Christ," Nate breathes, his knees threatening to fold abruptly at the feel of the warm, wet suction of Desmond's mouth. His hands automatically grope for Desmond's head, for balance; Desmond's got no hair to speak of but the prickly feel of his shaved head makes Nate's palms tingle as he runs them over Desmond's skull down to the graceful dip of his nape. He lets his fingers rest there in that warm vulnerable hollow as he stares down at Desmond, watches his face as he sucks Nate's cock in, as his lips paw at Nate's skin and his tongue laps at the crown on the pull-back. It's a sight, Christ is it a sight, almost better than the feel of it, until Desmond does something with his tongue way down low towards the base of Nate's dick that makes him gasp and thrust before he can check himself. Desmond moans and sucks harder like it's some kind of reward, and Nate closes his eyes and debates the merits of coming like this, fucking this kid's mouth as he moans and swallows Nate down.

But as much as the idea appeals to him, Nate realises he doesn't want this to be over that fast. He doesn't want this to be that impersonal. He wants to hold Desmond in his arms and look in Desmond's face when he makes him come; he wants to be able to feel his breath and the shudder under his skin. Desmond had said it had been a while since he'd had any kind of sex at all; well, Nate's been feeling a little hard up too. Forget the fact that what happened with El was his fault; he got used to having her around, having her there, touching her, kissing her. He misses her, and it's not like Desmond's some kind of substitute, but he does miss the simple human contact, the affection, the feeling that being with her gave him, and he doesn't want this, now, to be meaningless, even if he and Desmond haven't exactly spent a lot of time in each other's company. He strokes Desmond's skin again, sweeping up the back of his neck to press his fingers gently into the muscle at the base of his skull, and when Desmond looks up he looks down and tells him, his voice low and rough,"Stop."

Desmond does, pulling off carefully, staring up at him, and the guardedness in his face isn't what Nate is aiming for.

"What?" he asks, like he's doing something wrong, and Nate shakes his head.

"Just, this," he murmurs and leans down to catch up Desmond's mouth and kiss him, and then when Desmond starts leaning back under the press of his weight, he follows him down.

"You're still..." Desmond begins laughingly. "Your boots, and- Come on, Nathan. Naked. Naked."

"Okay, okay," Nate laughs back and tips himself sideways, letting himself fall the rest of the way down to the futon. Damn thing's not as soft as he would like, but at least it isn't going to squeak a hell of a lot. "So we're back to you giving me a hand. With the _laces_ ," he adds, just in case Desmond gets any more bright ideas.

"You know, sneakers you can just kick off, yeah?" Desmond observes as he lifts one of Nate's feet and starts tugging at the boot laces. Nate just rolls his eyes at him and shimmies his jeans and jocks down over his ass and thighs.

"Kid, you go the kinds of places I go, canvass just doesn't cut it. Besides, it's not like I find I need to get out of them in a hurry. Usually I'm just grateful they stay on and in one piece."

"So I gather, but, dude, you were robbing a _museum_. In _Tokyo_. You can't get much easier on the wear and tear than that."

"Hey," Nate objects, reaching down to pull the boot off now Desmond's finally dealt with the laces and has moved to the other one. He tosses it and it lands with a satisfying thud on the tatami mat over by the window. "You never know. Besides, no one exactly pencilled in ‘get naked with some crazy kid with blades up his sleeves' into my diary for tonight."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Desmond returns good naturedly, finally getting the laces on the other boot and tugging it off and tossing it towards the other one, before gripping Nate's jeans in both hands and giving them a good pull. "Get a P.A. Also? Who the hell are you calling a kid?"

Nate grins up at him, finally naked, his bare skin flush from top to toe with anticipation. "Sorry. Picked it up off someone. Course, he's old enough to use it legitimately."

Desmond grins back, crawling over the futon, over Nate. He moves in a way that makes Nate want to hold him down and lick him. "An older guy, huh? _Now_ who's talking about whose exes?"

Nate just about chokes at that idea. "Uh, yeah, _no_ ," he laughs, but it's a little hard to focus on Sully in relation to – yeah, well – while Desmond and all that smooth warm skin is sliding against his own, while Desmond's weight is coming to settle on top of him, while Desmond is smiling teasingly, his mouth ruddy and a little swollen from use. "No exes here," he murmurs, reaching up to pull Desmond down to him and Desmond goes willingly, and there aren't even words for how good it feels, how down to the marrow satisfying it is for just a moment to be skin-to-skin with another person.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, leaning down to kiss him and his eyes are dark, like storm clouds. "Christ, touch me, Nate," he says roughly. "Please."

Nate does not have to be asked twice, and the planes and curves, the toned topography of Desmond's body, were just _made_ for touching. He feels unbelievable under Nate's hands, everything about him strong and responsive and hungry. Nate couldn't get enough of this even if he tried, and he is trying – his tongue sliding in slick, eager counterpoint to Desmond's, his legs opening to accommodate one of Desmond's thighs, the hot, hard pressure of Desmond's cock pressed up against his belly, occasionally brushing Nate's cock as Desmond rolls his hips in restless waves. Oh, and that's good, that's real good. Nate pants his air back into Desmond's mouth and slides his hands along the creases at the backs of Desmond's thighs, grips him and pulls, hitching him up into a better, more mutually satisfying position, and Desmond gasps and his fingers clench on Nate's shoulders.

"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes gone from dark to bright, a hot blaze of desire. "I wanted you to fuck me, but I'm not going to last that long."

Nate feels his heart give a little kick at that idea and snakes a leg around one of Desmond's to lock him into place and keep him there while they rock against each other.

"And I wanted you to fuck me," he gasps back, "but I don't think I'll last that long either."

"Fuck," Desmond grates, and half wrapped around Nate with Nate half wrapped around him, he shudders. "Jesus fuck. Nate, please."

Nate doesn't have any idea what he's really asking for, but there's no thought required in sliding a hand between them and gripping both their cocks together in his fist, and there's some slick – sweat and precome – but it would be far better with more.

"The lube," he pants. "Come on."

Desmond twists away for a moment, stretching for the tube they left discarded on the futon, popping the cap squeezing some out. Nate keeps stroking, because, Christ, he can't stop, and then Desmond's back, his hand sliding over Nate's, his fingers running slippery between Nate's own, and then suddenly the slide of their fists over their cocks goes from great to fucking perfect and Nate groans and drops his head to the mattress, and then groans again when he feels Desmond's teeth sink into his arched throat.

"Yeah," Desmond is panting as he draws back. "Yeah, Nate. Christ." Suddenly he's propping himself up, thrusting into Nate's hand and that makes perfect even better, the hot, slick slide of his cock against Nate's, the push of his hips. "God, you're amazing. You're amazing."

Nate laughs at that, too breathless to say the same, but right now as far as he's concerned they're amazing _together_ and he wants this to last forever. But he can already feel his orgasm collecting in the base of his spine, heat pooling like molten metal, threatening to spill over. He drags his hand up their cocks and sweeps his thumb roughly over the heads, squeezing, his fingers spread, as Desmond shoves up again, and he wants his mouth, props himself up on one arm, his abdominals burning to match the fire deep in his belly, so he can kiss him again, open mouthed, panting raggedly, inviting the increasingly uncoordinated invasion of Desmond's tongue.

Desmond's breath catches and in Nate's grip he gets abruptly harder. Nate wishes he had three hands, four, mutters, "Come on, Desmond, give it to me," and Desmond trembles, thrusting again, and then again, his mouth open and this look, this _look_ on his face that is utterly indescribable but is so beautiful Nate has to make a conscious effort not just to stop and stare. And then Desmond is coming, his cock pulsing inside the clench of Nate's grip, his semen spilling messy and warm over Nate's fingers and belly as Desmond drops his head to Nate's shoulder and shudders through it like he's been plugged into a live socket.

"Fuck," Desmond pants. "Wow. Holy shit. Stop. Stop. Let me-"

Nate swears himself when Desmond shifts, knocking his hand out of the way so he can wrap his own fist around Nate, and that's good, someone else's hand on him, it's good, but...

Desmond rolls a little to one side, snakes his other hand over the curve of Nate's ass, down, and then his fingertips are brushing Nate's asshole and Nate would almost be embarrassed by the sound that comes out of his throat then, if he was so turned on.

"Yeah?" Desmond asks throatily and Nate struggles for breath and nods his head frantically and then Desmond's finger – fingers maybe – are pushing and it's, holy hell, it's wrong and right and fantastic and everything he hasn't had in he can't remember how long. Desmond's other hand pulls on his cock, tight and slick as he turns into the curve of Nate's shoulder and scrapes his teeth across Nate's skin and that's it, Nate is gone, and it feels a little like a supernova.

It wipes him out like one too. He doesn't know how long he lies there, but it's long enough for Desmond to roll to his feet and pad back to the bathroom, presumably to clean up. Nate still hasn't managed to quite get his heart rate back to normal by the time he returns and drops a warm, wrung out cloth on Nate's chest.

"Thanks," Nate mumbles, and does a half-assed job of cleaning himself up before just giving it up as too hard. "That was great."

Desmond looks back at him, throwing him a brief grin, before going back to rummaging through the fridge. That's the thing about Japanese apartments, Nate thinks gratefully: open plan. Desmond hasn't bothered to get dressed, and the sight of him leaning into the fridge, buck naked, is one of the nicer views Nate's discovered in the past little while.

"It really was," he agrees. "Man, don't you have anything in here but tea, cold noodles and soy sauce?"

"Not my place," Nate says, not really all that apologetic.

"So, what, you broke in?" Desmond says, bringing the bottle of cold tea out with him anyway and twisting the lid off to guzzle almost half of it down while he's standing there.

"Yeah, kind of," Nate agrees, and hell, he's not a teenager anymore, but watching Desmond, he almost wishes he was. "Friend's place. He's out of town. Probably."

"Right," Desmond says dubiously. "So you borrow his place when he's not here. To run errands like robbing the National Museum of its Heian Period treasures. How do you know he's not, like, watching or something?"

Nate raises an eyebrow at that, then pushes himself up and holds out a hand for the bottle, suddenly parched.

"One," he starts as Desmond comes over and hands the bottle to him. "We work together sometimes and he trusts me. To a certain extent. And two, no-one's _watching_. Where the hell would you get an idea like that?"

Desmond screws up his nose for a moment. It makes him look incredibly young.

"Someone's always watching," he says, but doesn't elaborate. "So, what else have you stolen lately?"

Nate takes a few swigs of the unsweetened tea then screws the cap back on and puts the bottle aside.

"Well, now, that's a pretty long story," he says. 

Desmond grins again. "I got some time," he offers, almost casually. "And a bottle with your name on it." He looks down and nudges the tube of lube with his foot. 

Nate looks at it and then looks back at him, then grins and stretches on the futon. It probably doesn't escape Desmond's notice that it's mostly for show.

"Well," he says happily. "That ain't antiseptic."

++++++

When Nate wakes later, much later if the low hum of traffic outside is any indication – a city like Shibuya is only ever relatively quite in the very early hours of the morning – he's alone. His clothes are folded in a neat pile, his boots next to them, along with the remaining lube and his condoms, which are significantly less numerous than before. It's a small apartment, so he doesn't need more than the time it takes to lift his head to realise that Desmond's gone.

"Well, fuck," he sighs to himself. Stupid to even think he'd still be here. In fact, Nate reasons, he was probably lucky they spent as long as they did together. Or maybe it had less to do with being lucky and more to do with being horny, which would probably fit more with the way Nate's luck actually runs. Well, he wasn't sticking around Tokyo past today anyway. He's got to fly back to his buyers with-

Nate lurches up, staring at his pack he dumped last night on the low dining table shoved into the corner of the room.

"No," he says. "No, no, no, no, you so did not do that."

He scrambles over to his bag, wrenches it open, digs out the pouch and-

And he already knows it's empty by the feel of it, but he opens it anyway, because he always was a bit of a masochist.

But it's not entirely empty. Sure, the relic is gone, but in its place is a piece of folded note paper, from a business hotel that Nate himself has never stayed in, and written on it in neat, no-nonsense hand writing is:

> So, I figured it was easier than having to fight you for it. Don't worry, I only need it for a few days. Stall your people for that long and you can have it back. There's a bar in the Osaka Bay area. Has this insane number of flavoured chu hi or something. Pretty famous, so you should be able to find it without too much trouble. Meet me there in four days, 9 pm and we'll get shitfaced together. You can tell me why you called me 'El' in your sleep, and I'll tell you why I think I'm being watched. 
> 
> D
> 
> P.S. This time I'll bring the bottle.  
>  P.P.S. And I don't mean antiseptic!  
>  P.P.P.S. Uh. I probably didn't need to point that out, did I.
> 
>   
> 

Nate stares at the note a couple of beats longer and then drops it back into his bag.

"Well, fuck," he says again, but this time, he's smiling, and if it's a little goofy, well, no one's around to see it.

Probably.


End file.
